


stress relief

by Anonymous



Category: Chess - Rice/Ulvaeus/Andersson
Genre: AFAB reader - Freeform, Other, Sexual Tension, Strip Chess, because of course there’s strip chess, gender neutral reader, im bad at chess, ive only been into this musical for like a week so if his characterization is off that’s whu, lots of prose bc i couldnt be bothered to write out a chess game, reader wears a bra
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:33:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27816133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: This isn’t a game of chess, it’s a shark swallowing a minnow for breakfast.
Relationships: Frederick Trumper/Reader
Kudos: 4
Collections: Anonymous





	stress relief

**Author's Note:**

> chess is a good musical i don’t know why i hadn’t heard of it earlier. lots of sexy men trapped in there let them out

He’s an old friend of yours. Okay, “friend” is a strong word, and the guy’s attitude isn’t exactly conducive to making any, but he’s an acquaintance. A sickeningly attractive acquaintance. You don’t know what it is that’s so alluring about Freddie, but there’s definitely something. His smug aura is equal parts infuriating and intoxicating, and it certainly isn’t helping matters that he’s easy on the eyes. 

You think about him more than you’d care to admit. 

With the world chess championship coming up, he’s stressed. Not that he’d ever admit it, but the fact that he starts calling up every name in his phonebook looking for companionship that’s not Florence makes it obvious enough. When he contacts you, you try your darndest to play it cool, though you’re still incredibly enthusiastic to see him and you let him know that, and he drinks the attention up like wine. 

When he arrives at your house, you can just feel your inhibitions slip from your grasp. He’s handsome and he knows it, and he  _ knows  _ how you feel about him — sure, he plays it off like it’s no big deal and he’s used to this kind of attention, but he really does just adore having you wrapped around his little finger. 

Basic formalities and awkward small talk ensue, but there’s the underlying playfulness to it all that makes it exhilarating. You could be talking about the weather for all you care and that crackling electricity between you and Freddie would still make things interesting. 

Of course there are plenty of things you could be doing, but ultimately, the two of you wind up on opposite ends of a chessboard. You’ve never been any good at chess. You think it’s a very interesting game, and harboring semi-secret affections for Frederick fucking Trumper of all people admittedly added a little fuel to that flame of fascination. And it’s a game of intelligence, of wits, of getting inside someone’s head and trying to figure out what gears are turning inside and why; there’s something titillating about that. 

You almost laugh looking down at the board — it’s your own set, and the cheap plastic pieces say everything one needs to know about your skill level. “You know I’m no good at chess,” you say to Freddie, but you’re smiling ear to ear and he can see it clear as day. 

“I’ll go easy on you, sweetheart.” Those condescending pet names of his are gonna be the death of you someday, you swear it. 

You get an absolutely evil idea. 

“...hey, actually, wanna make things more interesting?” you ask, absentmindedly fidgeting with the first piece you could get your hands on.

“How so?” 

You purse your lips together, debating if you should go through with suggesting this or not, but you’re too far in now to back off. “How would you feel about strip chess?”

Your eyes flit from the rook you’re rolling between your fingers to Freddie’s face, and you’re just in time to catch the brief flash of surprise that’s covered back up by his typical cockiness by the time you blink.

You can’t help but smile a little bit at the stunned silence he’s doing a decent job of masking as thinking. 

“Still gonna go easy on me, hotshot?” you prompt. At first you think his response is more silence, but then — 

“oh, I’m going to tear you apart.” His voice is low, his eyes piercing. Your stomach somersaults. You replace the rook you were fidgeting with to make it clear you’re ready to start, a cue he takes. 

“So, what rules are we playing by?” he asks as he makes his first move, his tone conversational with no trace of the edge that was in it just a moment ago. 

You hum in thought while you scoot your first piece forward. Gotta play coy, can’t make it too obvious you planned this far and you’ve already decided on a ruleset you like. “...Pawns aren’t worth anything, knights for small stuff,” you begin. “For  _ clothes _ -clothes, uh, gotta capture both matching pieces. Maybe bishops for pants and rooks for shirt?” 

“Sounds great.”

You converse with both your words and your pieces, but your heart’s thumping too loud to really register anything he says, and conversation gradually dies down in favor of intensely staring at the board. You know from the start that you’re completely outmatched, by a margin so wide it’s unreal. This isn’t a game of chess, it’s a shark swallowing a minnow for breakfast. And you don’t even want to swim away. 

What a privilege, you think, to be this up close to Freddie Trumper in his element. The way his brow furrows and his lip pouts while he surveys the board and his eyes dart around planning ten moves ahead is a sight to behold. This may be no high-stakes championship match with the livelihood of a nation on his back, but he’s still bringing his top game. 

He wants you. 

Between your brain being fuzzy from excitement, not really  _ wanting _ to protect your material, and of course being nowhere near his skill level, it’s not long before he’s picking off your pieces. You’re hyper-aware of what’s going on on the board, and yet there’s an adrenalinic haze covering everything. You don’t even  _ realize  _ what move Freddie just made, until his voice cuts through the silence:

“That was your last rook.”

“Oh — oh, I guess it was.” 

“Your shirt, dollface.” His voice is level, his eyebrows raised. 

Heat shoots up into your face and you fumble your shirt off, casting it to the floor along with whatever accessories you lost with your knights (both of which are already gone). Your skin prickles with both cold and excitement. 

Freddie’s eyes trace your curves with that same tactical steeliness he traces the movements of rooks and bishops and knights with. You pretend to turn your attention back to the board so you’re not just staring at each other, but you can’t help yourself from peeking back up to see that look on his face. 

“Your move,” he prompts. 

You nod, trying to get a grip on your composure, and make your next move. He has the upper hand, and there’s no question about it that he’s going to win, but the thrill is in the chase, isn’t it? And in the discarded clothes, of course. You haven’t captured a single one of his pieces yet beyond a couple pawns (in mad-dash moves that quickly got your attacking pieces taken out). 

Either he’s off his game or he wants his pieces captured, because only a couple moves later you’ve gotten one of his knights. He takes the loss in stride, smirking at you as he shrugs his jacket off. He looks unfairly good in his plain t-shirt, and while he’s nowhere near as exposed as you his body’s  _ distracting.  _

Piece after piece is lost for both black and white — both of you are anxious to get naked and neither of you are able to fully concentrate on the board. Freddie’s in nothing but a shirt and boxers, his pants in a heap on the floor, and even though you don’t exactly have a view of that with the table in the way it’s still exciting to think about.

Then he captures your queen. 

“We never decided on queens, did we?” he says.

“...Bra?” you ask.

His eyes light up in a way that reddens your face a good few shades. 

You remove your bra. Freddie bites his lip. You would love to be smug and showy about this, but his gaze on you is so intoxicating and thrilling and  _ right  _ that all you can do is just take it in. Your eyes meet for a moment before you turn your attention back to the game. 

Any classy player would have resigned at this point. All your good pieces (and clothes) are gone. The only black pieces on the board are your king and a single pawn that’s not getting queened anytime soon. It’s all you can do to keep moving your king away from Freddie’s pieces. 

And then —

“Check.” He doesn’t usually announce check; that’s an amateur thing, but...

“is… is that mate?” you squeak. You can’t see a single move to get your king out of harm’s way. Freddie’s shit-eating grin is about as loud and clear as a proper yes. “Good game,” you manage to say. 

“What do you take off now?” he asks. You’re about to answer, but he reads your mind. “Panties?”

You flush. “Uh, yeah, that’s what I was thinking.” 

“Mind if I do the honors?” 

You go so red in the face you’re surprised he doesn’t call you a commie. 

“Oh, uh — if you want to. If you’re into that then I’m into that.” 

“Well, I can’t do it when you’re on the opposite side of the board.” 

Was… was that an invitation…?

You shakily get out of your seat and walk over to Freddie, who’s quick to yank you off your feet and onto his lap. You can feel his hardon through his boxers and it’s pressing against you in just the perfect way. 

His voice is low and dangerous in your ear. “You have any idea how much self control it’s taken me to not bend you over and take you over the chessboard this whole damn game?” 

“The feeling’s mutual,” you breathe. Freddie hooks a finger — ohh, his hands are large and warm and calloused just like you imagined — under your panties and slides them down your thighs. He looks down at the revealed prize with pure fascination, that smugness that’s so distinctly him still oozing off the look on his face. 

After a bit of fumbling about, you get your underwear all the way off your legs, and they join the rest of your clothes on the floor. Freddie’s eyes raking over your body, slowly,  _ deliciously,  _ is a sight you’re still not used to, and oh you’re definitely not used to his hands on you why hello there. 

“Now that the game’s over,” he says, his breaths getting ever so slightly heavy, “I can go ahead, can’t I?”

“Yeah. You can.”

Freddie’s grin is downright predatory as he makes good on his earlier statement, standing the both of you up and throwing you against the board in a way that’s WAY hotter than by all means it should be. Any chess pieces that were left go flying. You can’t see him because you’re on your stomach, but the hand behind you appreciatively squeezing your ass tells you all you need to know. You let out a “mmph” and Freddie chuckles.

His hand explores between your legs and just barely touches where you need him to touch you. “My God, you’re  _ drenched _ ,” he says. “I bet you were horny during our whole little match, huh? Did you get your seat wet?” His voice is condescending,  _ mocking,  _ and really fucking hot. 

Your response is mostly for his sake to get him going, but you really do mean it, and it’s hard to think when he’s idly brushing his fingers right  _ there:  _ “...it’s just… so… so hot, how you’re so good at chess, I think. You absolutely  _ dominated  _ me in that game, Freddie.”

“I know,” comes his reply. “And I’m not done dominating you on this board, sunshine.” 

His hands vanish from your body and leave behind cold air, but you hear the sound of one last piece of clothing being discarded, and then — oh  _ fuck _ , you feel his tip ghosting against you, you  _ whimper,  _ it’s taking everything you’ve got to not start begging like a dog. 

Freddie’s hands grab you by the hips,  _ hard,  _ and that’s the only warning you get before he slams into you. 

You yowl his name, followed by desperate panting as you try to catch your breath. He’s big — a surprise, honestly, you couldn’t help but wonder if that ego was compensating for something. But that’s the least of your worries right now, especially when he starts moving, slowly, but Freddie Trumper is not a patient man and he picks up speed fast. It’s raw, it’s animalistic, it’s hard and fast, it’s everything you ever fantasized about with him and now it’s real. 

“Shit,” he grunts. “You — fuck, you have no goddamn idea how long I’ve wanted to do this to you. Fuck.” 

His fingernails dig into your skin and threaten to leave marks. oh, you hope he leaves marks. You wanna remember this, you wanna remember the way he’s grabbing onto you and slamming himself into you like an animal and the way he smells like Old Spice and just a touch of sweat and the way you feel so full and used. Hell, you want this to happen again, there’s no way in hell this is the last time you bed Freddie. 

He’s good. He’s extremely good. 

You’re already close — how long has it been? a minute or an hour, you wouldn’t care to tell the difference — and his breathing’s uneven and ragged, you bet he is too. 

“Freddie,” is all you can even say.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Say it. Say my name.”

“Freddie,” you whine. 

“Louder,” he  _ growls,  _ he fucking growls, you’d do fucking anything he demanded in that voice. 

“F-Freddie.”

“Good. F-fuck, agh, you’re so good, holy God…” his voice trails off but he’s going faster and sloppier than ever. 

“I’m close,” words you manage to form in what must be a miracle considering you’re so high on pleasure you can barely think. 

“Then —” he thrusts into you even harder, if that was possible “— then fucking cum for me.”

You do. It hits you hard, intense, it feels so good and he doesn’t stop, he’s getting sloppier, you can tell he’s close, all your senses are amplified and electric and then he digs his fingernails so hard into your skin you bleed and he lets out a fucking beautiful noise as he cums in you and it feels so good and you don’t even care that he’s going in raw. 

He slows down and his grip on your hips loosens. For what must be a solid minute you just stay there, panting in exhaustion and enjoying the warm cozy post-orgasm feelings. 

Eventually Freddie pulls out and begins getting redressed. You sit down at his seat and just enjoy the view, namely the way his t-shirt clings to him from the sweat. You’ll have to get his shirt off next time; you like what you’re seeing. He hands you your clothes with a sloppy open-mouthed kiss that leaves you blushing and wide-eyed.

“That… was really good,” you say while you begin getting your clothes back on.

“Best I’ve had in a while,” he acknowledges while he pulls the sleeves of his jacket on. “And I can expect to see you after the tournament?”

“Oh, definitely.”

“You’re gonna be great stress relief, you know that?” 


End file.
